


Sunflower Dreams

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Child Abuse, Dystopia, Friendship, Gen, Heart-to-Heart, Platonic Relationships, Utopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 20:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18880321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: When Alfred was ten years old, he dreamt of a lady standing in a sunflower field, alone.He's a little older now, a little wiser, and he wants to find her. But one thing leads to another; the secret of his hometown rears its ugly head; the cold darkness threatens to snuff out the light...





	Sunflower Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loquaciousloser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousloser/gifts).



> As this is a human AU, characters use human names.
> 
> Alfred = America  
> Matthew = Canada  
> Ivan = Russia  
> Irina (Irunya) = Ukraine  
> Natalya (Natasha) = Belarus  
> Arthur = England  
> Francis = France
> 
> Enjoy!

There was a lady in ten-year-old Alfred’s dreams.

He opened his dreaming eyes to see the wide blue sky and her small face, framed within it. It was a face that he thought he’d seen once, long ago. But he could not recognise it anymore. And he did not know her name.

Under the sky, the field of yellow sunflowers seemed to stretch on forever. They were nodding in the cool wind, swaying forward and backward, brushing the lady’s blue skirt. She smiled. She had a warm smile. Alfred was reminded of his mother’s smile, in the pictures of her that sat silently in their small house.

He had never met his mother, because she was sleeping deep beneath the earth.

The lady didn’t move. Alfred didn't move either. It wasn’t like him to stay quiet, but something about the lady’s gentle appearance made him fidgety and awkward. They stayed where they were, gazing at the sky and the sunflowers and occasionally each other. Her hair was paler than the sunflowers, but Alfred thought it was a nice colour. He liked the way that her hair had been rolled up into a braided bun, too. It was pretty. She was a pretty lady.

Suddenly she looked at him with bright eyes and said, “Please save my brother.”

But the dreamer woke before he could ask who her brother was.

\---

The town of Hateail was the most beautiful place in the world. 

Brightly coloured flowers bloomed from every corner, sprinkling the sweet spring air with a gentle fragrance. Sunlight danced merrily on the red cobblestones; the turquoise fountain poured on softly in the centre of the centre square; pearl-white doves hopped about nearby, pecking at bits of food thrown by giggling young women. Everyone’s lives were eternally improving – there was nothing to hate, nothing to resent. 

For everyone lived in perfect happiness.

But sometimes Alfred thought about the lady he’d seen in his dream three years ago. The next day he’d raced through the town, swinging his head left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of her – and though he’d glanced into every corner and squinted into the distance, she was nowhere to be found. Faced by this obstacle, he’d lost interest. Alfred had quickly forgotten about her. 

Then he’d happened to look up one day two years later, and he’d seen her pale face floating behind a window above him. Her hair had been cut and she’d seemed older, but Alfred would have recognised her anywhere. He’d tried to call out to her. No name had come to his lips. He’d raised his arms and waved at her, but she hadn’t glanced his way. Alfred had looked into her eyes, and hadn’t known how to describe the emotion he’d seen swelling there. It was a feeling beyond sadness, beyond despair. Looking back, he could only describe it as an expression of utter resignation.

When he’d blinked she was gone.

Alfred had grabbed his twin brother’s hand and pulled him to the door and knocked loudly, but no one had come to open it. He’d returned the next day, and the next, dragging his brother along all the while, to no avail – weeks later, just as Alfred had been turning to leave, the door had swung open and Grandfather’s tall figure had loomed before him.

“No one lives here, children,” Grandfather had said, in a kindly tone. He’d smiled. The deep laugh lines at the corners of his eyes had crinkled in response. “Run along; I hope to see you both later today, for your worries sit heavy on your shoulders.”

That night Alfred had plotted to sneak into the house, but Matthew had glanced around nervously and begged him not to go. “We’re not allowed there,” he’d said. “Please, Alfred – I don’t want you to get hurt. What would Papa do if you got hurt?”

And when Alfred had accused Matthew of being a coward, his brother had sprung to his feet, wide-eyed and trembling. He’d darted out of the room – he’d returned with their father, and Alfred’s plans had promptly fallen apart.

Back then, he hadn’t known that he’d never see the lady ever again.

\---

The residents of Hateail were happy because of Grandfather.

On the last evening of every week, they would put on their finest clothes, walk to his house, and queue before his door. One by one, they would be allowed to enter; the men would bow and the women would curtsey, and then they would kneel before Grandfather and say: “Please release me from my worries,” and Grandfather would reply: “I shall guide you back to the realm of happiness,” and place his wrinkled, age-softened hand on the crown of their head. In an instant the deed would be done – any speck of pain or sorrow or anger would evaporate from the kneeler’s mind, freeing them to be light-hearted once more. 

Alfred didn’t know how long this had been going on, or how old Grandfather was. His father didn't know either, but despite participating himself, he’d never let Alfred or Matthew go with him. “There’s something fishy about this business,” he’d said, his bushy eyebrows creasing with a frown. “I want you to stay away from that man.”

So every Sunday evening, when the rest of the world gathered before Grandfather’s door, Alfred would slip away to the sunflower field on the outskirts of town. It was a place that he hadn’t told Matthew about – even between twins, some things were too special to be shared. He played there, slept there, wandered between the long tall green stems in search of a face that he would never see again. He remembered the sound of her voice, and wondered if Grandfather had something to do with her disappearance. All orphaned children were taken to Grandfather for their protection; he would embrace them with open arms and usher them into his beautiful house, and they would never be seen again. No one knew what happened to them. 

But it didn’t matter, for they would be safe by Grandfather’s side.

\---

One day Alfred had the sudden impulse to look for the lady once more.

That night he stole quietly out of bed, padded across the cold floor, opened the window, threw his shoes out, and climbed easily to the ground. He craned his neck to glance back in – Matthew was still asleep. Alfred shoved his feet into his shoes and ran across the wet grass.

It had rained earlier. The red cobblestones gleamed under the silver moonlight, and beads of water glistened on the dark green leaves. Alfred was alone, as no one else had slipped out to walk in the darkness. There was nothing to fear, but his heart jumped at every shadow; he ran faster, tearing through the blackness before him.

At long last he turned into the central square, and took a left into the street where he’d seen the lady one year ago. The two tall long rows of identical red brick houses loomed before him on either side – he felt tiny in comparison. But he wasn’t going to go back. He’d come so far, and he wasn’t going to go back.

Alfred stopped before the house and tried the door, but couldn’t twist the knob. The door was locked. This was unusual, for the residents of Hateail rarely locked their doors – when their neighbours had discovered that Alfred’s father locked his door, they’d immediately looked upon Alfred’s family with suspicion. It had all blown over after Sunday, but Alfred would never forget the smug mistrust glittering in their eyes. 

The door was no longer an option. So Alfred squinted at the face of the building, and after a few moments of consideration decided to scale it. A window, the window where the lady had looked out three years ago, had been cracked open; he could enter through it. 

Alfred approached the foot of the building, clambered onto a low ledge that housed several pots of daisies, rose to his tiptoes, stretched his right arm out to grab an upper ledge, reached out with his other arm, and pulled himself upwards, swinging his legs onto the new surface. He knew better than to glance behind him, but he did so anyway; it sent an icy thrill through his entire body. He took a breath, climbed onto the next ledge, braced himself against the cold wind, and leaned far back to wrench at the window – it was stuck, the metal shrieking as he struggled to push it open. As he scrabbled for a better foothold, he nudged a flowerpot that tumbled to the ground and broke with a loud crack; a sudden surge of adrenaline flooded his arms with strength and at last the windows gave way.

Alfred fell through the white curtains and into the room.

Instantly he was engulfed by complete darkness. 

\---

“Who are you?”

A small, thin voice pierced the silence. Alfred couldn’t see anyone; he blinked rapidly, casting his hands about, struggling to see through the blackness. After a few seconds he thought he saw an indistinct black figure slumped a metre before him; it shifted slightly, and an odd metallic clinking sound followed the movement. 

“Who are you?” the voice asked again. Alfred thought it seemed like a boy’s voice. 

“I’m Alfred,” he said. “Who are _you_?”

But no one replied.

The window was wide open, but the darkness of the room seemed to smother the moonlight. The curtains had fallen slightly closed, but now they hung completely still and unmoving. It was as though the wind that had tugged at Alfred’s clothes just a minute ago had vanished; had dispersed into thin air, suffocated by the darkness.

The black figure got bigger; the boy was moving towards Alfred. That metallic scraping sound was audible once more – as his eyes adjusted to the unnatural darkness, Alfred could just barely make out the slight glimmer of chains. 

“I don’t know you.” There was a faint note of wonder in the boy’s voice. “I know your father, but I don’t know you. I’ve never seen your heart.”

The room seemed to plunge in temperature.

“But that’s okay,” said the boy. “I think it’s better that way.” He paused. 

“Alfred, will you be my friend?”

\---

That night, Alfred learned everything.

“Grandfather keeps me here,” said the boy quietly. “He chained me here so I can’t get out. Once every seven nights he comes into this room and puts his hand on my head and pours all the bad feelings into me.” He took a shaky breath. “It hurts. I hate it. It makes my body cold, like I can never feel warmth again. And then he closes the door and leaves me, and it gets darker and colder.” The black outline of the boy was shaking now – Alfred moved closer. 

“Don’t worry. I’m going to save you,” he declared.

Alfred didn’t know how, but he was going to do it. He had to do it. He remembered the look in the lady’s eyes as she’d said, “Please save my brother.” This must have been what she’d meant. 

This boy was the brother that Alfred had to save.

Suddenly two cold hands seized Alfred’s wrists and two large eyes stared desperately into his own. “You can’t!” cried the boy. “You can’t save me. If you try you’ll disappear. Grandfather said so.” He took long shuddering breaths, and inched closer to Alfred, his chains rattling against the wooden floor. “My big sister Irunya tried to save me. She was the chosen one before me, until the bad feelings made her sick and killed her. She knew that when she died I would become the next chosen one, and that when I died my little sister Natasha would. So she tried to help us escape.” 

His fingers were trembling. “But it didn’t work. We were caught before we could even flee. Irunya died two days later. And I don’t know where Natasha is.” 

The sky lightened, though in the dark room they could barely see it. For the first time in his life, Alfred listened instead of speaking, for he didn’t know what to say. In the weak morning light, the chains binding the boy’s hands seemed impossibly thick and heavy. He had to save him. 

But how was he going to?

The boy urged him to go. “Grandfather will find you,” he whispered, “and I don’t want Grandfather to find you. I don’t want him to hurt you. So please – ”

And Alfred was climbing out of the window, throwing his weight against it to push it closed, and hurriedly clambering down the face of the building. He broke into a run, hoping against hope that his brother wasn’t yet awake. He scrambled back into bed, and closed his eyes.

Alfred wondered if he’d wake up and find that it was all just a dream.

\---

Their names were Irina, Ivan, and Natalya.

The year that Natalya was born, their parents had drowned in the lake at the outskirts of town. No one had seen it happen; no one had looked for them for six hours, until Irina had run to the lake and seen her parents’ bodies floating there, pale and motionless. After that no one had seen the siblings ever again. No one had really cared, either.

It was like an entire family had simply ceased to exist.

\---

Alfred visited Ivan once every week.

Each time he’d bring a matchbox and strike a match. By the tiny wavering flame he would see Ivan’s white face floating in the darkness – his features were soft and closely resembled his sister’s, resembled those of the lady whom Alfred had seen in a dream so long ago.

It was hard to remind himself that she was already dead.

Ivan’s hands were always cold. Alfred brought the burning match close to the other boy’s fingertips, but nothing ever seemed to warm those freezing hands. Once, he’d taken his coat and draped it over Ivan’s wide shoulders – but it hadn’t seemed to help, and Alfred had needed to take it back with him come morning. He wondered how he was going to save Ivan. He didn’t have an answer. 

Even the warmest summer beams seemed to dissolve into snow in Ivan’s chilly prison.

\---

Ivan was around Alfred’s age; yet he wasn’t like any of Alfred’s friends. 

He bore the town’s hatred and pain, had it forced upon him – sometimes something would twist at his smile and, speaking rapidly, he’d enthusiastically describe people’s misfortunes.

“Francis Bonnefoy’s wife betrayed him, and Grandfather has been cleansing those worries for three weeks now.” Ivan giggled. “I wonder what he’ll do!”

He saw the people’s dampened hopes and crushed dreams and vanquished ambitions; he had been dragged before them, had his eyes pried wide open and his body turned to stone so he had no choice but to trap the world’s pain in his one soul. Ivan’s heart had broken long ago. His mind had followed it, had shattered under the stress of a hundred people’s worst nightmares. Now he could only stand by and laugh at the sorrows laid out before him. It was the one thing that brought him comfort in his misery.

But Alfred didn’t see why Ivan was laughing. He blew out the match – instantly the room flooded with liquid darkness. “You’re a cruel person,” he said. “I hate people like you!”

And three weeks flew by before Alfred climbed to Ivan’s room again.

For the longest time he never really came to understand Ivan. Alfred was too young, too self-righteous; and their lives were too different. Often, he didn’t know what to say, either. He just didn’t know how to interact with someone who lived in a completely different world. 

Once, Ivan quietly told Alfred about how his family used to visit the field of sunflowers on the outskirts of town – out of nowhere, the smile died on his lips. Ivan paused; a dark, choked emotion stole over his face like a storm rolling over a clear blue sky; suddenly his eyes were unguarded and vulnerable. 

An uncomfortable feeling settled over Alfred. He shifted where he sat, and felt the pressing need to fill the silence with words – so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“Do you know where Natalya is?”

It was the wrong thing to ask. Ivan’s eyes narrowed; his face tightened, and he glared at Alfred.

“No,” he said. “I told you. I don’t know where she is.”

He looked away, his eyes moving angrily about the room; he took a breath, looked back, and said: “Did you know that your father blames you for your mother’s death?”

Alfred felt his face warm. “You – ”

“He once did,” said Ivan, speaking rapidly, “And he hated himself for it. He blames himself, most of the time, but sometimes he can’t help but resent you too, because she died while bringing you into the world. Some people find it hard to live without meeting Grandfather every week; Arthur Kirkland is one of those people. It’s been thirteen years since his wife died. But he misses her every day.” Ivan met Alfred’s eyes. “You didn't know that, did you?” 

It was only the tears in Ivan’s eyes when he begged Alfred to stay that made him decide not to abandon the other boy to the darkness. 

\---

He lingered after dinner.

His father turned. “Decided to help with the washing?” he said. Alfred approached in stubborn silence – his father watched him quietly, his green eyes searching and intent. “Do you have something to ask me?”

“Do you miss Mom?” asked Alfred. 

His father’s eyes widened. Something broke in his expression. He let out a short laugh, and glanced away; shifted his weight from one foot to the other; took a shallow breath and leaned down and crushed Alfred in his arms.

“I do,” he said quietly. He buried his head in Alfred’s shoulder. “I really do. I loved Mom. I loved her very much.”

Ivan’s words echoed in Alfred’s mind. 

But his father’s arms tightened around Alfred’s body. “I love you too,” he said. “I love you and your brother more than anyone else in the world.” He raised his head, and pressed a light kiss to his son’s temple. “And Mom loves both of you just as much.”

Slowly, then all at once, a warm feeling flooded through Alfred’s entire body. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his father’s broad shoulder. He decided to say that the terrible dinner they’d had that night was the best thing he’d ever eaten. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to leave his father’s arms, where he felt as though nothing in the world could hurt him.

For the first time, Alfred thought that he was the luckiest boy in the world. 

\---

Little by little, Alfred began to understand Ivan.

There was a world before Alfred’s eyes that Ivan couldn’t see. Matthew was right there while Natalya was lost; Alfred’s father was by his side while Ivan’s had died long ago. All that Ivan knew, all that he had seen for years on end, was that dark tiny room where he was expected to live and die. A hundred doors had closed on him; his name had been forgotten by everyone. For the sake of their happiness, he had been abandoned to the cold darkness.

If he was cruel, it was only because the world had never been kind to him.

And Alfred decided that he would be the first person to do so.

Ivan seemed to be trying, too. He hated when Alfred got angry at him – and slowly but surely he was beginning to understand that there were some things that shouldn’t be said. Some part of him comprehended that it was his fault; he never consciously accepted the consequences of his actions, but now he was trying to improve, to become a better person. 

They got to know each other for the first time. Despite everything, there was something pure about Ivan – his heart held the innocence and simplicity of a child. A deep longing for love swelled within him. Alfred became his first brother, his third sibling. He desperately wanted to stay by Alfred’s side.

But Ivan was getting colder and colder, and maybe it was already too late.

\---

Alfred dreamed of a memory that he’d forgotten long ago.

The eastern forest rolled out endlessly before his eyes; he wandered, weaving between tall trees and low shrubs, breathing the thick earthy air; but the haze of green blurred in front of him and he couldn’t find the way out. His father wasn’t with him, because he was with Grandfather. His brother wasn’t with him, because he’d refused to enter the forest.

Alfred walked a little longer, searching, hoping – and suddenly reality hit him.

He was completely, hopelessly lost.

Panic set in. His heart raced. The night was closing in. He looked around desperately, his eyes wide, his leg muscles tensing as he prepared to run –

“Are you okay?”

He looked up.

The familiar, beautiful face of a young lady swam before his eyes. 

“I’m lost,” he said.

She tilted her head, and smiled. “I’ll show you the way out,” she said. A slender hand crossed the distance between them; it hovered there, its fingers outstretched, waiting for him to reach out and take it. There was something calming about the lady, something soothing about her gentle blue eyes and her soft voice. Something deep inside Alfred longed to trust her, to hide within her arms and escape from the world. He wanted to like her. He wanted to spend time with her. He wanted to tell his brother that he’d met someone who looked like their sleeping mother.

He reached up, and took her hand.

Together, they walked through the forest. She laughed and talked, filling the vast silence with her sweet voice; he grinned, and told her about the bad food he had to eat every day. He had a little brother; she had one too. Her brother was Alfred’s age, said the lady – and her youngest sister was only a few months old.

At last, the trees began to thin; the edge of the forest was in sight. He could only cling to her hand so tightly – reluctantly, he let his hand slip from hers, and stepped away. She bent, and kissed him on the forehead; ruffled his hair; told him to hurry home, so that his family wouldn’t worry about his absence.

Just before they parted, he asked for her name.

“My name is Irina,” she said, her face brightening with a smile.

“What’s yours?”

But the dream had vanished before Alfred could answer.

He stared at the ceiling, and blinked away the tears in his eyes.

\---

Alfred told Ivan about his dream.

“I met Irina when I was a kid,” he said, “and then I dreamed about her when I was ten, and she asked me to save you. I saw her in this room two years later. I climbed in here because I wanted to see her again.”

Ivan listened. The flame flickered on the match, throwing long shadows on his large pale face. He talked less now; day by day he seemed to grow quieter and quieter, colder and colder, and Alfred struggled to find a way to shrug off the silence that sometimes fell heavily upon them. 

“I dreamt of your sister in a field of sunflowers,” said Alfred, and suddenly something burst to life in Ivan’s dull eyes. He jolted upright, gazing at Alfred with a wild, rapt expression; he leaned forward, colour creeping into his white cheeks, and began speaking rapidly.

“I know that place,” he said, “and it’s been years since I last saw it. It’s been years since I’ve seen the sky. I can’t see it from in here. It’s blue, right? And the sunflowers are yellow, and when their petals scatter in the warm summer wind it rains in gold. I remember it. I can see it when I close my eyes.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I want to go back. I want to feel the breeze on my skin. I want to lie down in the field of sunflowers and look at the sky above me.” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to wipe away his tears, but the chain pulled at his wrists and his hands thudded against the wooden floor. “But I can’t. I can’t, because – ”

“You can,” said Alfred. “You can.” He grabbed Ivan’s hand. The darkness writhed around them, but the flame dancing on Alfred’s match seemed to banish all fear. Irina’s gentle voice filled his ears: “Please save my brother,” she’d said, in a dream he’d dreamt long ago. He remembered the day he’d first met her. He remembered how she’d saved him when he was lost.

Now that she was gone, there was only one thing that Alfred could still do to thank her.

“I’m going to save you,” he said.

“And we’ll go to see the sunflowers together.”

\---

But it was impossible to break the chains.

Alfred tried everything. He counted the coins he’d saved and bought a bolt cutter, but the links were too thick and none came close to snapping. He wrapped up his father’s saw and carried it up with him, but the metal shrieked against metal and the sound was so distressing that Ivan begged him to flee before Grandfather noticed. He struck another match and held it to the freezing chains – but the flame swayed weakly and Alfred realised that he had no chance of melting anything even if he had years of time.

He pulled at the chains. He found the point where they were hooked to the ground and wrenched at it, but it barely shook. He tried to chip away at the wooden floorboards, but there was no way that he could finish the job in one day. If he tried to work at it slowly, Grandfather would notice. 

So, there was nothing that he could do.

And Alfred had to watch as the darkness swallowed his friend whole.

\---

Ivan was not dying.

That was what Alfred told himself. That was what he kept telling himself, even as Ivan shivered in the darkness and Alfred moved the tiny flame as close to the other boy as he dared. He wished they were beside a roaring fire, where the burning heat could thaw the ice beneath Ivan’s skin. But here there was only silence, and an undying winter. The flame wobbled and died in Alfred’s hand. 

The days dragged on, and Ivan grew colder and quieter, and Alfred didn’t know what to do. He didn’t think that there was much that he could do, but he knew that he had to do _something_ , anything at all, to save his friend before it was too late. He imagined his brother in Ivan’s place, imagined Matthew breathing his last in cold damp darkness, and felt an icy thrill of terror shake his entire body. He tried to imagine himself chained to the floor in a small dark room, dying alone to be forgotten eternally. He couldn’t imagine it. He was only thirteen years old. Half a year ago he’d thought he was immortal. He hadn’t thought about death unless he was thinking about his mother. He’d never had to, otherwise.

He visited Ivan every day now, slipping quietly out of bed and climbing to Ivan’s side. The lack of sleep hung heavily on his face. Occasionally Matthew and his father would ask Alfred if he was all right, but their words stung. There was so much that Ivan had lost. There was so much that had been taken from him.

Why had Alfred never realised just how fortunate he really was?

\---

He placed the candle on the floor, and held Ivan in his arms.

It was the only thing that he could do now. It was the last thing that he could give. He didn’t think that the warmth of his body would melt the layers and layers of frost coating Ivan’s skin, but at the very least he could share in Ivan’s suffering. He rested his chin on Ivan’s freezing shoulder, and whispered old memories in Ivan’s ear. Sometimes it was hard for him to not cry. 

But Alfred had to play the hero, for Ivan’s sake. 

\---

One day Ivan stopped responding.

Alfred looked at the large pale body slumped against his, looked at the colourless white face swimming in the darkness, and suddenly couldn’t breathe. He grabbed Ivan’s shoulders and shook him roughly and called his name. “Ivan! You have to wake up! You have to! Please – ”

Ivan’s eyelids stirred. “…Alfred?”

“I’m here.” Alfred’s entire body was shaking. “I’m here. I’m going to save you. I’m not going to let you – ”

He couldn’t say it.

“Wait here.” With trembling hands, he laid Ivan on the floor. “I’m going to get you out.” He hurried to the window, his heart pounding, trying not to wonder if he was simply running away. “I’m going to save you. I promise. I – ”

He couldn’t stay a moment longer.

Alfred struggled down the building, barely knowing where he was going. He ran across the red cobblestones, gazing up at the starless, forlorn sky, his eyes burning, his mouth dry. He climbed into his room and groped about in the closet and found the bolt cutter, dropped it, and picked it up again. He stood there for a while, gasping for breath, staring at his brother’s sleeping figure. The urge to wake Matthew and confess the secrets of the past six months struck Alfred; he resisted it, and resisted the desire to close his eyes and pretend it was all just a dream. He was better than that. He was scared, but he had to overcome his fear.

If Alfred didn’t save Ivan, no one ever would.

Hurriedly, he made his silent way back. It was the middle of summer. The air was warm; it embraced Alfred as he ran through its fragrant arms. The thin clouds parted; the path pooled with patches of silver moonlight. Within minutes he would be abandoning it for the cold darkness once more. Within minutes he would be trying to break the chains, and within minutes failure would stare him in the face. Why had Alfred left Ivan alone when he’d needed a friend more than ever? Because he was a coward, and he didn’t have the courage to look death in the face. Why was Alfred still trying to free Ivan? 

Because there was nothing else that he could do.

“Please save my brother,” a lady had said once.

But that was the one thing that Alfred couldn’t do.

\---

He fell through the white curtains into the inky darkness.

Alfred threw the bolt cutters to the floor, knelt beside Ivan’s prone body, and tried to strike a match. His fingers were trembling – he missed once, twice – he tried not to think and to just focus on his task, but what if he was too late and what if Ivan had died while he was gone –

The tiny flame weakly threw its faint light on Ivan’s wrists.

Alfred’s heart stopped.

The chains were gone.

He whipped his head around.

A pair of grey eyes glittered in the darkness – they regarded him for a few moments, gleaming coldly – then the tall black silhouette bent and turned to leave, and the two eyes vanished from the gloom.

The door snapped shut behind Grandfather’s back.

\---

Slinging Ivan’s arm over his shoulders, Alfred staggered downstairs.

The other boy’s head moved slightly; he mumbled something in Alfred’s ear. “Shh,” said Alfred, glancing about in the darkness, thudding heavily down the wooden stairs. “It’s me, Alfred. I’m going to get you out of here.”

He expected Ivan to protest that Grandfather would find them – but his friend only groaned weakly. “I’m…tired,” murmured Ivan. “Can I…sleep for a little while?”

“No.” Alfred hastened down the stairs and staggered into further darkness. “You can’t.” His eyes stung. “You can’t go to sleep.” He groped about, knocking against chairs and tables. “We’re almost there.” He blinked, hard. “Just a little longer, and then you’ll see the sky and the sunflowers. So please – ”

His hand curled around the cold doorknob.

Then they were out, out, and Alfred had liberated Ivan from the tiny dark room and he was finally free. He leaned against the face of the building, gasping for breath – “Look, Ivan, we’re out, I got you out, you’re not going to be trapped anymore – isn’t the moon beautiful? You can look at it whenever you want now. And you can see the flowers, and the trees, and the fountain in the centre square. You can go wherever you want. I’ll take you there.”

But there was no response.

The only thing telling Alfred that Ivan was still alive was the faint sound of his wheezing breaths – he could just barely hear them, in the silence of the sleeping town. A dull ache pulsed in his chest. He swallowed, and tried to ignore the feeling.

Something wet touched Alfred’s cheek. He blinked. It was drizzling. He ignored the rain, adjusted Ivan’s position on his back, leaned forward, and stumbled across the shining red cobblestones. 

He wished he could apologise to Irina for not being able to save her brother.

But it was too late, even for regret.

\---

He staggered through the night.

The drizzle swelled into a pounding downpour. Alfred struggled forward, dragging Ivan’s body with him, shivering against the cold, squinting through the pouring rain. Once, he slipped and skinned his knee against the wet stones; he gritted his teeth, hauled Ivan’s unmoving body up, and limped on. Ivan was barely breathing now. Alfred wondered if he’d made a difference at all.

If Ivan couldn’t be saved, did it even matter if he died a prisoner or an escapee?

Under the sullen, overcast sky, the sunflower field was grey and dull. Alfred waded into it; his feet sank to the ankles and came out caked in mud. He knelt; laid Ivan out over his lap, leaned forward to shield his white face from the rain, and said, “We’re here, Ivan. We’re at the sunflower field. The sunflower field you wanted to see.”

But Ivan didn’t move.

Alfred’s vision swam. He took a shaky breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. “Ivan?”

There was no reply.

“Ivan, please.” With a trembling hand, he touched Ivan’s cold cheek; brushed the hair from his eyes; wiped the rainwater from his face. “Ivan?”

Slowly, Ivan’s eyes opened.

“We’re here,” said Alfred, “Look! We’re at the sunflower field.” He swallowed his tears, and forced his tight face muscles to curve in a smile. “You’re free. You’re finally free.”

Weakly, Ivan’s colourless lips parted, and closed. “It’s…all dark, Alfred. I can’t…see. Are we…really there?”

“Yes.” Alfred heard his voice wobble. “We’re there.” He took Ivan’s limp hand, raised it, and brushed Ivan’s fingers against a wet petal. “Can you feel that? It’s a sunflower. They’re everywhere. We’re surrounded by them.” He choked back a sob. “They’re bright and yellow, and they stretch on and on forever. The sky is bright blue, just like you remember. Do you hear that?” He paused. The rain roared around them. “It’s the birds, singing in the trees. You’re not trapped any longer. You can go anywhere you want. Ivan, you’re finally free.”

“It’s raining,” breathed Ivan.

Alfred blinked through a haze of tears. “It’s just drizzling,” he said. “The sun is still shining, and – and there’s a beautiful rainbow in the sky. I can – I can see the colours, there’s – red, and orange, and yellow, and – and green and blue and violet.” He laid Ivan’s arm on his lap, and wiped rapidly at his own eyes. “There’s dark blue, too. It’s – it’s the colour of your eyes.”

But the world, drained of all colour, cried in grey.

Ivan’s eyes fell closed. “…Alfred?”

“Yeah?”

The corners of his friend’s mouth lifted, ever so slightly, in a smile. 

“Am I dying?” 

“No.” Alfred grabbed Ivan’s hand. “No, you’re not.” He bent, and buried his head in Ivan’s chest. “You’re not going to die. I won’t let you. I – ” His voice broke. “I was supposed to – to save you. Your sister asked me. It was the only thing she asked me to do. And I kept telling you that I would save you. But I – I failed. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I – ”

“…Alfred.”

A large hand gently squeezed his own. 

“Thank you,” whispered Ivan.

The wind sobbed in the distance.

When Alfred raised his head, Ivan had stopped breathing.

\---

The town of Hateail was the most beautiful place in the world. 

No catastrophe, no blizzard or drought or thunderstorm, ever seemed to strike it. Every Sunday evening, Grandfather would smile gently and free the people from their self-imposed prisons – and so, their lives could proceed in perfect happiness. Nothing could shake this blissful, peaceful state of order. There was not a single thing that needed to be changed. If someone tried to change things, none of the residents of Hateail would have stood for it. That was how wonderful everything was. It seemed impossible, but it was indisputably true.

When the people living in a certain street woke up one morning, and were greeted by the charred remains of a certain house, they were all rather taken aback. Enquiries were swiftly made; no one appeared to live in that house, for none of the neighbours knew who its occupants were; and once Sunday rolled by the fire had ceased to be of any consequence. It was not forgotten about; instead, like with most worries that Grandfather cleansed, people had simply stopped caring about it. It had ceased to matter.

Even if the roaring inferno had engulfed all their houses, all would have been forgiven once Sunday flew by.

Luckily for all those involved, that was not the case. 

In that same month, another curious incident occurred. A few days after the fire, a family of three disappeared overnight. When people stopped by to peer into the house, they saw that only the furniture had been left untouched; everything else, from perishables to clothes to family photos, had vanished with the father and his twin sons. People looked at each other and asked: “Did you know them?” and others answered: “Yes, I worked with the father once” or “My son went to school with the brothers” but none of them knew where the family had gone. As Sunday approached, a handful of people might have been worried. Once Sunday had passed, the names of the family promptly ceased to fall from anyone’s lips.

And the residents of Hateail continued with their lives, troubled by nothing at all.

But there was a third incident. A little girl, the youngest sibling in what had once been a family of five, had vanished as well. She hadn’t been seen in years – her parents had drowned in the lake on the outskirts of town, and Grandfather had taken her in then – and no one had known where she was, but one day when morning broke she was no longer there. She had gone somewhere else; had been taken away, by the only person besides Grandfather who still remembered her name.

Nothing could change in Hateail. Nothing would change, so long as people hated suffering and longed to be free of it by any means necessary. Nothing would change, even if they learned that they were regaining their innocence by polluting the mind of a child. Nothing would change, so long as humans were selfish and wanted the world for themselves.

That was why Grandfather would live forever.

But perhaps, in the end, that person had been able to save someone after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partially inspired by Le Guin’s short story, ‘The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas’.


End file.
